Avenging Telgar
by Inkhearted
Summary: A character history turned into the story of a girl who seeks revenge for her father's death and the destruction of the place she called home, even if it means teaming up with Weyrfolk from across the continent. A Yungun Story. Please R&R!
1. Holocaust

((Dragonriders of Pern and all references are © Anne McCaffrey. Yung Weyr and all references are © Despairing. Keisen is © me. :D))

Keisen's first memories are of the Telgar Kitchens. From the time she could talk in coherent sentences, she told her mother in no uncertain terms that she was not returning to the crèche, as the children there were annoying and she wanted nothing more to do with them (this is what she tells people, though the majority doubt a two-Turn-old's ability to convey her meaning in those exact words). So the little girl tagged along behind her mother's skirts as the woman set to work in the kitchens, and rather than being overcome by boredom, Keisen was absolutely fascinated.

The idea of being able to make something out of nothing intrigued her, and it wasn't long before she was demanding substance to put in the pots she'd been given to bang on. Her mother – and sometimes the other cooks – gave her rotting tubers and excess herdbeast meat, and she always received what couldn't be reused from the previous night's dinner. Happily she mixed everything into some cold, rancid stew that she demanded everyone try (and she was only satisfied when they made "yummy" noises, and didn't usually notice that they were only pretending).

When she was a little older, she was given more important tasks – like adding herbs to the evening stew, kneading dough for bread or bubbly pies, and watching over the roasting wherry to make sure it didn't burn. It was around this time, too, that Keisen learned of her father.

He strode into the kitchens one day, tall and muscled, his chin perfectly stubble-free and his shirt neatly tucked. The man was a vision of order – until his lips spread into a broad grin, bringing warm light to his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Keisen's mother. She paused slicing tubers long enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. Keisen watched this from her post at the hearth, and couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Lekeia was _her_ mother and should only kiss _her_! Yet she also couldn't help but feel excitement, too, for she had seen this dragonrider on many other occasions, and he had often given her sweets or little toys.

But the gift he had for her that day was much, much better.

After P'sen returned the kiss and whispered words in Lekeia's ears that Keisen couldn't hear (as she sat with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed, becoming steadily more frustrated with the situation), he crouched beside her and said, quite kindly, "I've been looking high and low for a competent set of hands to help me wash my dragon. Your mother tells me you're intelligent enough _not_ to start a mud fight in the middle of a dragon's bath." (Keisen swelled with pride, for this was something she certainly wouldn't do; only stupid people used mud to bathe something.) P'sen grinned. "Would you like to help?"

Only when her mother assured her that she'd look after the roasting wherry did Keisen take the bluerider's hand and allow him to lead her to the Weyr Lake. Though the girl had lived in Telgar her entire life, she'd never seen a dragon so up close before. Mostly they could be seen glimmering on their ledges, or flying above the Weyr, or from across the Weyrbowl. She knew other Weyrbrats were daring enough to sneak up close – but Keisen always had things to do, because she was i trusted /i by the adults of the Weyr and was given important duties. She didn't have time for childish antics!

Keisen would never forget that day, for that was the day she decided to become a dragonrider. The moment P'sen's dragon fell like a piece of sky from above and lowered his snout to her level, she knew exactly what she was meant to be – and that wasn't a kitchen worker. She stared right back at that blue, and P'sen showed her where the dragon liked to be scratched. Soon they were knee deep and laughing in the chilly lake, rubbing down the blue with soap sand and splashing each other with water.

Every day after that, Keisen found excuses to go to P'sen's weyr. It was usually in the morning, before the kitchen got hectic preparing for the noon and evening meals. She helped him clean up his room and care for Arakith, organize papers and fetch supplies when he needed it, and sometimes, when she was older, she was able to help tend to his riding equipment.

"We'll make a queenrider out of you yet," he would say, ruffling her hair with a chuckle. He meant it as a compliment for another job well done, and Keisen simply smiled, though she had other plans. A queen was all well and good – a queen meant power – but a green meant importance, and Keisen knew which she preferred. She didn't say anything, though, because she liked that he had high hopes for her. She had learned who he was, though he didn't say anything and neither did Lekeia. But what her parents thought were secret smiles and stolen kisses didn't go unnoticed, and Keisen had seen enough of herself in the bluerider to come to the correct conclusion.

But peaceful years of foolish Weyr pride couldn't last forever. Someone had to crack – and the Istans did. Rumors of mass murder reached Telgarian ears long before the heat of Istan flame did – but they were too arrogant. No one took the threats seriously; they were clearly someone's idea of a joke, and if they were real, well, the other Weyrs were weak. No one could infiltrate Telgar's walls. They were drunk with self-proclaimed power, and Keisen was no better. Instilled in her was a sense of pride as fierce as any for Telgar Weyr.

But Telgar was just as vulnerable as the rest, and too tempting a target for the Istans to overlook.

That night, ten-Turn-old Keisen awoke to screaming. She scrambled out of bed with her heart hammering to see what was going on – noted her mother's absence from their rooms – and strode out into the main hallway. People were everywhere; children and adults alike were sobbing, running, coughing from the smoke that hung above their heads. Keisen joined the masses in terror and confusion – her mother was nowhere to be seen, someone shouted that there were 'riders dead, that the kitchens were on fire… And Keisen heard it, the terrible noise that confirmed everything: dragon keening.

She was pushed along with the crowd, but she didn't see where they were going; her eyes were blurry with tears. Soon a cold blast of wind filled her lungs with fresh air, but they weren't safe. The Weyrbowl supplied them with oxygen, yes, but it was here that the worst battles were taking place. Pools of blood and piles of bodies were thick on the ground – dragonriders fought with swords and flamethrowers, some with expressions of sleepy surprise, others with features marred by sick pleasure. Dragons rose into the sky and blinked _between_… and they didn't return.

"KEISEN!"

A blue dragon had been flying low, and now landed not far from the terrified Weyrfolk, who scattered. Keisen, however, rushed into P'sen's tight embrace, shaking and sobbing with a mixture of relief and fear. Her father held her for a moment, then asked urgently, "Where is your mother?"

"I d-don't kn-know!" Keisen cried, clinging to him. With him, she was safe. With him, she would stay alive. She had so much left to live for… death frightened her. While she had half-convinced herself that this was all a terrible dream, she knew a blade could pierce her heart just as easily as those screams pierced her ears.

"Stay with Arakith," P'sen said, drawing a knife from his belt. He let go of her and started off into the crowd. Instantly his comforting warmth was replaced by the blue's tail wrapped protectively about her… but P'sen didn't get very far.

Almost everything slowed to a crawl, except for the faces rushing by, which seemed to move twice as fast. But P'sen and the Istan 'rider who confronted him remained stuck in time. Then P'sen raised his knife – the Istan 'rider grinned maliciously and rose to the challenge. Keisen couldn't tear her eyes away from the fight, and Arakith was tense behind her. The knives slashed slowly through the air and left only scratches on the opponent – until – until…. Her father was suddenly on the ground with his blade inches out of his grasp. The Istan had that wretched grin still on his face as he thrust forward with his sword…

"NO!" Keisen screamed, but it wasn't heard over Arakith's roar. The dragon's eyes whirled madly and his tail released her from its hold. In a flash of blue he was in the air, keening with the rest – and just before he blinked _between_, never to return, Keisen heard a voice in her mind: _He told me to tell you… he loves you_. She had never heard the dragon before, but she knew it was him – his voice was so much like her father's – but she didn't have time to dwell on that.

The girl rushed forward, heedless of her father's killer mere feet from her, and dropped beside P'sen's body. As if Arakith's disappearance hadn't been enough to confirm it, she shook him, tears pouring down her cheeks, but she knew he wouldn't move. Copious amounts of blood still gushed from his wound, soaking his shirt, and his eyes were wide, staring… blank. Keisen felt oddly empty, as though someone had just ripped out her heart and replaced it with something cold and insubstantial… at least, compared to love.

Someone yanked her to her feet and pressed a bloody blade to her throat. Keisen raised her eyes to meet the murderer's, and they threatened tears again, but she refused to let them flow. She maintained her steady gaze, as if by looking into his eyes she could divine the reason for this insanity – but her attempts yielded no information, except that the Istans truly were crazy. He smiled cruelly at her and said, in a cold voice, "Pledge your allegiance to Ista, little girl, and you won't meet the same fate as that man." He whirled her around to look at her dead father again, keeping the blade pressed to her throat and his grip tight on her shoulder.

"No," Keisen said stubbornly. She felt like the word was uttered by someone else – she knew she was probably seconds from cold, inescapable death…

"Align with us!" the Istan 'rider shouted, shaking her as if he could bring her to her senses by doing so.

"NO!"

She could feel the metal pierce her skin, knew a thin line of blood was trickling down her neck – but something stopped the dragonrider from finishing what he clearly wanted to finish. He hovered for a few moments on the brink of indecision, then cursed and tucked the knife into his belt. He dragged the girl, kicking and screaming, to his waiting bronze dragon and mounted with her. The dragon didn't take off, but plowed a sizeable path through the crowd (which was slowly thinning due to death and order of chaos). Soon enough, Keisen was dragged off the bronze's back and the 'rider was demanding, "Whose brat is this?"

The bronzerider released his harsh hold on her and she stumbled forward into her mother's loving arms. Her face hidden in Lekeia's shoulder, Keisen allowed her tears to flow freely as Lekeia secured her daughter's place in the living world by swearing allegiance to Ista for her. Keisen could've hated her for it, could've said she'd rather die for Telgar rather than join the ranks of murderers, but she'd just realized something that made her silence very important at this crucial moment.

The coldness where love had been hours before had ignited into a freezing flame that lusted for revenge, and she knew it wouldn't be extinguished until she saw every last Istan dead. She needed to be alive to accomplish that – and Keisen was never one to leave a goal sitting idle.

"He killed him," she whispered to her mother. "He killed P'sen."

"I know," Lekeia said softly. Keisen looked up to see tears running down the woman's cheeks, and she realized that she wasn't the only one who had received Arakith's final message.


	2. Rebellion

Keisen's hands were dusty with flour, and one left a long streak of white across her forehead when she lifted it to tuck a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. Then she went back to kneading. Cooking, her childhood passion, had climbed to the top of Keisen's interest list once more, and she spent every spare moment in the refurbished Telgar kitchens. Tubers didn't mind if her knife sliced them a little too harshly, and the dough didn't care how much she pounded it. It would still turn into bread, even if it was a bit flat.

Her problem was her inability to vent her anger in any other fashion; every casual movement _they_ made caused her to grit her teeth in frustration because she couldn't do anything about it. Deaths were still happening, and since that night her mother had been clinging as she'd never clung in Keisen's memory. She was determined to keep her daughter alive, and no matter how often Keisen told Lekeia that she was old enough to look after herself, she still found herself shushed every time she opened her mouth to speak out against one of those infuriating Istans.

No one was doing anything about it. A good chunk of the old Telgar crowd still remained, and Keisen felt they could take on the few wings of Istans who stayed after the attack to keep them in line. But the survivors were mostly Weyrfolk who knew they were no match for a dragonrider – others were lazy cowards who swore their allegiance to Ista rather than die fighting for their Weyr. To all appearances, none of them had done anything more than shoot a few glares at their oppressors… except those who disappeared in the night…

So, Keisen cooked. For a year she had cooked, because it was the only way she was able to spend her time productively while waiting for pieces of her plan to fall in place. Her plan was quite simple. She would Impress a dragon, because dragons demanded respect for their 'riders. With a dragon, she could gather followers, and they'd stage a great uprising against the Istan scum who had invaded their home. It would take many long Turns, especially as she was a long way off from the usual Impressing age anyway, but she could wait. Her other plan – to secure a fatal amount of fellis and slip it into the Istans' stew – was also pending. She didn't care which she did first, Impress or obtain a large amount of fellis, just as long as the Istans wound up dead sometime in the near future.

The eleven-Turn-old Weyrbrat finished with the doughy loaf and placed it on a tray next to three others ready to be baked. Her task complete, the sounds and smells of a busy kitchen reentered her senses – the Head Cook shouted at a drudge for dropping a pot of soup, someone had neglected his or her duty to watch over the roasting wherry and it was now burning, and she saw two sneaking hands fumble for freshly made bubbly pies. The kitchens were just the same as they had been a year ago – a hectic mess of normality in which everyone acted like the enemies _weren't_ inside their walls.

But they _were_!

"Keisen, you're really no use if you can't keep your temper under control," Lekeia said sharply, one hand wrapped around her daughter's arm. In a bout of fury, Keisen had squished the dough into a blobby mess that wouldn't make the most appetizing looking bread. She removed her hands for fear of doing more damage and turned to scowl at her mother, but Lekeia shot her a look that told her argument would not be well tolerated. "I'll take care of this. You can take a tray of refreshments up to V'del's weyr – don't roll your eyes at me, young lady – and when you come back you can help with the meat rolls."

Keisen did as she was told, with much angry clattering of plates and cups as she loaded them onto a tray. She added a pitcher of klah, and was pleased to see hands once again grabbing for bubbly pies. She smacked them away – was pleased to hear multiple whines of "Ow!" – and piled some of the bubblies onto the tray as well. Then she stalked off through the kitchen, made her way through the noisy Dining Cavern (glaring at anyone who looked her way), and stomped up the stairs to the greenrider's weyr.

She liked V'del – he was a good friend of her… well. And Arakith had caught his Vistath on more than one occasion. But his sympathetic, pitying smiles weren't the consolation Keisen was looking for, and if she stayed in his presence too long she was usually gifted with long-winded reminiscence about P'sen and ended up in tears later. Glad for the excuse of waiting meatrolls, she balanced her burden across one arm and knocked on the weyr's door.

It opened after a moment, but it wasn't V'del in the threshold. Keisen looked up at a brownrider she knew by face but not by name, and beyond him sat several other dragonriders looked at them curiously from the wooden table. The brownrider took the tray from her and muttered a gruff, "Thank you" before he started closing the door again.

"Wait a moment, Gh'fon," said V'del, having realized who was outside his weyr. "Is that Keisen? Come on in, girl – P'sen's daughter," he added in response to dubious expressions. They relaxed a little as she took a few steps inside, but continued to stare at her like she was intruding on something private. Gh'fon shut the door behind her, set the tray on the table beside an open deck of cards, and began passing out cups.

"Er – I can't stay long," Keisen told the group, feeling awkward. "My mother said something about meatrolls—"

"Don't be ridiculous, that woman works you too hard," V'del said, smiling one of his sympathetic smiles. Keisen forced one onto her face with some effort, and with even more effort she slid in the chair he indicated. She sat on the very edge, ready to bolt when she was able. The accusing glares from the blue and greenrider across from her made her uncomfortable, and Gh'fon's coldness to her right wasn't exactly welcoming. V'del, however, offered her a bubbly pie (which she took to have something to do with her hands), and reprimanded the lot of them. "She's responsible, she's lost someone too, and her mother tells me she needs to know we aren't all useless – besides, think of how harmless we look with a child in our midst. You were saying, J'dos?"

The bluerider cast Keisen one last, assessing look – and Keisen met his gaze as innocently as she could, to all appearances too childishly preoccupied with her bubbly pie to pay any attention to what the adults had to say. But inwardly, she was intrigued. Needing to know they "aren't all useless" implied something interesting was happening, and if her mother suggested V'del tell her, it undoubtedly had something to do with the Istans. And "looking harmless" being necessary, she was pretty sure it was the kind of 'something' that she would enjoy hearing about. She was right.

"So this goldrider – Saresa, I think she's called – she's got quite a following, from what I hear, over in High Reaches," J'dos said, finally deciding that a child wasn't worth his notice. "But it's been kept quiet for the most part, obviously – if Istans got wind of this, it'd be a massive bloodbath again…"

"So we're fighting?" Gh'fon asked in his gruff manner. He set down his cup of klah with a wooden _clunk!_ and gazed at J'dos steadily, hopefully, like one of those rare flitts waiting for a treat. But it was the greenrider to J'dos's right who spoke (from the dark depths of her memory, Keisen drug up the name Sh'bir, though she wasn't at all sure if this was correct).

"Well, no," could-be-Sh'bir said apologetically. He kept his eyes averted – Keisen knew she wasn't the only one glaring at him like the lack of violence was his fault. "The idea isn't quite that popular… well, okay, the _idea_ is, but finding people who are willing to risk everything for revenge? That's difficult. The Istans have already shown us what they're capable of, but Saresa is just a goldrider, and a young one at that. People are – if not happy – tolerable of the situation. If they keep their heads down and their mouths shut the Istans don't bother them, so why put themselves in potential peril?"

"To set things straight!" growled Gh'fon, pounding his fist on the table and causing his cup to rattle.

"Yes, _we_ know that," J'dos said coolly, "but fear and cowardice corrupt faster than Thread. This blanket of spinelessness just keeps growing as it gobbles people up. And when it does, they turn into simpering fools nearly begging for their lives. I don't understand what they think they have to live for, honestly – what's life for a dragonrider without his weyr?"

"Anyway," continued could-be-Sh'bir, "there's just not enough manpower to stage a full rebellion, not with some non-Istan riders turned to the Istans' side. We'd all wind up dead, and then no one would be left to kick some Istan behind." He paused to grin. "Saresa set up a tropical paradise for us down in the Southern Continent. That should put enough distance between us and the Istans and allow our ranks to swell. A couple good clutches should do it."

"So we're running from a fight with our tails between our legs like some frightened canine?" Gh'fon asked furiously. "We've got the will—"

"Wouldn't the Istans notice a hundred odd dragonriders disappearing all at once?" V'del interrupted, frowning. "Even if they didn't notice, or couldn't find us, thread's due to fall in a Turn. We wouldn't have the manpower for _that_, either! Even if the queen laid a clutch right away, those dragons wouldn't be mature for another half-Turn after at least… Being understaffed during threadfall would be just as deadly as facing the Istans with the same number of men."

J'dos and Sh'bir exchanged a significant look while Keisen watched them avidly, her bubbly pie raised halfway to her mouth. "Well," Sh'bir said at last, "it would seem we need more time, then, doesn't it?"

"There's a rumor," J'dos said quickly in response to the blank expressions opposite him, "that dragons can not only go _between_ to different places, but also to different times. The Fortians have known for a long time, but Fortians wanted to keep their secrets, just like everyone else. Luckily someone tipped Saresa off. We're going back in time and to the South, but no one knows exactly where or when, just in case the Istans find out about this and use… er… less-than-pleasant methods to extract the information from unfortunate individuals."

"Back in time," V'del said wonderingly, his eyes misty and distant.

"Stop thinking whatever it is you're thinking, V'del," J'dos said sternly. "It would be extremely foolhardy to warn ourselves of the Istans attacking – or anyone else. And if too many people found out about timing it – even in the past – the Istans would find out and put a stop to this entire operation. They could go back in yearly increments and would find us sometime, probably sooner rather than later. I suspect we're going back ten Turns at most."

"Can we count on you?" Sh'bir asked, looking between V'del and Gh'fon. "We need 'riders, and the more from Telgar we can get, the better. Will you follow Saresa and join the ranks of Yung Weyr?"

"Of course," V'del said at once.

"Fine," Gh'fon grumbled, clearly finding the lack of imminent battle plans disappointing.

"Yes," Keisen pledged.

Everyone turned to stare at her. Gh'fon snorted and shook his head, J'dos looked like he was on the verge of laughing, Sh'bir simply blinked, and V'del smiled one his sympathetic smiles before saying, "Keisen – this is far too dangerous for you. You're only a little girl… your mother would have a fit…"

"What," Keisen asked fiercely, "does being a girl have to do with it?"

V'del faltered, but J'dos continued, "This venture is for dragonriders. We're the only ones who have a chance of winning a fight against Ista."

"Yes, and how are dragonriders going to take care of themselves when they have dragons to look after?" Keisen demanded. She was standing now, glaring at them all with her hands on her hips (the bubbly pie lay forgotten on the table). Being only a few inches taller than the sitting dragonriders, this didn't make much of an impression. "You can't tell me you won't need Weyrfolk to cook, clean – you'll be too busy training to fix a good meal, or I _hope_ you will be. I'm useful, I can cook, I can help. I _want_ to help. Anything is better than idly waiting here, making the Istans fatter every day…"

"We don't have time to deal with this, we're meeting someone else in a bit," said J'dos hastily, clearly not willing to argue. He and Sh'bir rose and stretched and made their way to the door. "See you, Gh'fon, V'del…"

"Look, Keisen," V'del said when they left, looking exasperated. "Your father was a very good friend of mine. I understand you want to help, but I simply can't allow it. What kind of person would I be if I let my best friend's daughter get killed in a mad attempt to murder a bunch of people? You're _young_. If the Istans find out, I doubt they're going to pause to ask us to swear allegiance to them this time – they'll just kill us. You've hardly had a chance to live…"

"A long life under Istan rule isn't much better than death," argued Keisen. "And worse if I don't _do_ something!"

The greenrider opened his mouth to speak once more, but Gh'fon beat him to it. "Let her go," he said simply. When he saw Keisen and V'del staring at him, he added, "She obviously wants to, and I don't see what the problem is. Istans don't know about timing it, do they? There are going to be Weyrbrats younger than her at Yung – at least she'll be useful. Better yet, she wants to _fight_. If we're lucky she'll Impress a gold when she's old enough, usurp this idiot Saresa woman, and lead us into battle."

He winked at Keisen, who smiled, but V'del didn't look convinced. "Lekeia would never allow it."

"Fine," said Gh'fon. "Talk to your mother, girl – tell her _everything_ – and if she agrees, I'll take you to Yung. If she doesn't, I'll convince her to let me take you to Yung, and if that doesn't work, I'll take you anyway. You're exactly what that Weyr needs."

"Thank you, thank you!" Keisen shrieked, throwing her arms around him. The brownrider looked taken aback and pushed her off awkwardly.

V'del watched helplessly as she bounced excitedly out of the weyr, and when her short brown hair whipped through the door behind her, he said, "If she dies down there, I'll kill you."

Gh'fon grinned.


End file.
